


Cruisin' After All These Years

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-14
Updated: 2007-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: She'll do a hundred and forty in the top end floored.
Kudos: 2





	Cruisin' After All These Years

**Driving up and down the same old strip**  
  
The first time Sam Winchester drives the car, he’s thirteen years old, and scared.  
  
Thing is, he can’t remember which is the brake and which is the gas, and he _knows_ Dean’s told him, and usually he’s pretty good at remembering this stuff, gets As on tests all the time, but this isn’t a test, this is tons of metal surrounding him, surrounding _Dean_ , and if he fails it’s not going to be an F, it’s going to be twisted metal and blood and _no do-overs this time_.  
  
“Relax.” Dean leans back and stretches out his legs. “As long as you only take out pedestrians, the car won’t get scratched, and Dad won’t kill you.”  
  
“Jesus,” says Sam, because the road’s flying underneath him, straight and endless and deserted at this time in the morning, and the steering wheel’s heavy in his hands, hard to turn, not effortless like it always looks when Dean and Dad do it, and he wonders suddenly what would happen if he couldn’t turn, couldn’t stop, and if the road really _did_ go on for ever. Sam’s been travelling his whole life, town to town, state to state, but for just a second he sees it all like it’s new, because if he wants to he can _choose_ to go on for ever, and he wonders if maybe this is what freedom looks like.  
  
“Change gears,” says Dean, and Sam almost feels the bump as his thoughts hit the ground again. He doesn’t really know how to change gears, doesn’t remember _how_ , and it’s a joke, just an illusion of control, because if he did go on for ever it wouldn’t be because he wanted to, it would be because he didn’t know how to stop.  
  
“Sammy?” says Dean, and Sam pushes back the tears that keep threatening these days, grits his teeth and squeezes the steering wheel tighter.   
  
“Can’t remember,” he says.  
  
“OK,” says Dean, like it’s nothing, like it’s not a problem that Sam has no idea what he’s doing. And just like that, Dean grabs the wheel, shifts half into the driver’s seat and pulls them over to the side of the road. He starts explaining how to change gears again, but Sam’s not listening, because he wants freedom, but he wants to _choose_ it.  
  
When Dean’s finished talking, Sam’s thinking about the way the car feels, jerky and heavy and awkward, and the way when Dean touches it it’s like he only has to think and it responds. “Was it this hard for you the first time?” he asks, wondering, hoping.  
  
Dean’s mouth twitches, and then he spreads his arms wide. “No way. I’m a natural.”  
  
“Natural egomaniac,” said Sam, and draws a deep breath, ready to start again. Maybe it isn’t easy, maybe he isn’t a natural, but he’s damn well going to learn.  
  
\----  
  
 **Makes the Indy 500 look like a Roman chariot race**  
  
The first time Dean Winchester drives the car, he’s eleven years old, and scared.  
  
He’s been waiting for what feels like his whole life, waiting to be old enough, because the car’s the one thing that’s always been there (apart from Dad, and he doesn’t even count, Dean can’t even imagine him not being there), the car’s _home_ and _safe_ and _family_ , and Dean knows it’s going to be his one day, that he’ll be the one sitting in the front and Sam’ll be in the back (or maybe he’ll let him ride shotgun), and they’ll listen to the music Dean likes and go where Dean wants to go. So yeah, he’s been waiting his whole life, only it’s not like that now, because yeah, Sammy’s in the back, but so’s Dad and Sammy’s not _breathing_ , and that? That was never part of Dean’s daydream.  
  
Dean can see Dad and Sammy in the mirror, almost misses the turning watching Dad’s hands pumping on Sammy’s chest ( _You’re not doing it hard enough, Dean. Jesus, let me. You drive._ ), his head periodically rising and falling over Sammy’s face. Dean’s driving, which is Dad’s job, and he wants to feel proud, except that Dad’s doing _Dean's_ job, Dean’s supposed to look after Sam, that’s his _job_ , and for all he wants to drive the car, he wants to look after Sam _more_.  
  
“Come on, come on,” mutters Dad, and Dean reaches the turning and wrenches on the wheel, going too fast, turning too slow, he knows what he _wants_ the car to do but he can’t make it respond quickly enough. The tyres screech and Dad curses and Dean knows he’s going to catch crap for that, except right now Dad’s too busy with Sammy and Dean’s supposed to be _responsible_ , and for some reason, the only thing he can think is _Dad’s never going to give me the car now_ , and after that _I don’t care, I don’t care about getting the car as long as Sammy’s OK_.  
  
Three hours later, a guy with a clipboard ( _doctor?_ ) tells Dad that Sammy’s going to be fine.   
  
“It’s lucky your boy’s such a natural with the car,” the guy says, and grins down at Dean. “Guess he takes after his old man, huh?”  
  
Dad glances down at Dean then, and frowns. “Not me,” he says.  
  
Dean never does work out what he means, but he’s too busy finally breathing out to care.  
  
\----  
  
 **Long as there are stars above you**  
  
The first time John Winchester drives the car, he’s twenty-five years old, and scared.  
  
“It’s gonna be OK,” he says, but he’s pretty sure he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself. “It’ll be OK, I promise, I got you, we’ll be fine.”  
  
“For Christ’s sake, John.” Mary’s breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. “Shut the hell up and drive.”  
  
John swallows down his litany of soothing words, concentrates on controlling the beast beneath him, not listening to Mary’s sobbing breaths because he needs not to panic, needs to control this situation. Problem is, the car’s unfamiliar and handles heavy, way heavier than what he’s become used to since leaving the corps, and his wife, his _wife_ is sitting in the seat next to him and--  
  
He takes a corner with a screech of tyres, and Mary’s fingers latch onto his elbow, biting down hard into the flesh. “You hurt my baby,” she says, “and I’ll kill you.”  
  
John glances down at her swollen belly ( _Jesus Christ, I’m going to be a father, I’m going to fuck it up, God, Mary, what do I do?_ ) and swears silently that he will never, never hurt their child.  
  
Problem is, he’s pretty sure that isn’t what she meant.  
  
\----  
  
 **If that ain’t enough to make you flip your lid**  
  
The first time Mary Winchester drives the car, she’s twenty-four years old, and enchanted.  
  
“This one,” she says. “This is it.” The steering wheel’s smooth under her hands, and sun flashes off the hood and through the windshield, leaving red spots dancing on her vision.  
  
Beside her, John snorts. “It’s ten years old. It’ll crap out a hundred miles down the road.”  
  
“No,” says Mary. “This one’ll see us through. This is my car, John.”  
  
She’s not watching John ( _she’s watching her car_ ), but she feels him shake his head, knows what his expression is without needing to look. “This isn’t a family car, baby. What about if we have kids?” he says.  
  
Mary presses down a little on the gas, feeling the hum vibrating through her body like she’s part of the machine. “They’ll love it,” she said, knowing, _knowing_ they will. “There’s space for three in the back. Plus, the trunk’s big enough to hide a body if we need to.”  
  
She does look, then, wants to see the fond confusion she knows is on John’s face, taste the victory she knows is coming. And there it is, the little sigh, the twitching mouth; he’s hers, and so is the car.  
  
“Well, if you feel the urge to kill anyone, just let me know in advance so I can play getaway driver,” he says, and Mary pulls in at the forecourt and thinks _you don’t get to drive. You don’t love her like I do_.  
  
“Great choice,” says the salesman, smiling sincerely now he knows he’s getting commission. “A wonderful car, the ’67 Impala. It’ll serve you well.”  
  
Mary runs her hand over the paint of the door. “I know she will,” she says. “She’s my car.”


End file.
